


Nice Little Fantasy

by ineswrites



Series: Pretty, in a Way [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dammit Westfahl, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, PWP, Strike Team, Team Bonding, Westfahl doesn't mess up surprisingly, creepy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 17:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10881579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: “Hey, rookie,” Mercer calls out to Jack Rollins, the newest addition to STRIKE. “How’d you kill Brock?”Rollins’ sharp, green eyes land on Brock.“I’d slit his throat,” he replies lazily, but without missing a beat.A prequel to Pretty, in a Way. Works as a standalone.





	Nice Little Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Милая маленькая фантазия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13723368) by [Schwesterchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwesterchen/pseuds/Schwesterchen), [WTF_Brock_Rumlow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Brock_Rumlow/pseuds/WTF_Brock_Rumlow)



> Dubious consent _at least_ , due to characters being intoxicated.

Usually, people become louder and more open when they get tipsy. Brock, on the contrary; he’s quiet and broody, listening to his friends’ drunken conversations, occasionally chuckling at the absurdity. Right now, he’s following their heated discussion about how they would kill each other, because that’s the kind of conversation STRIKE team has. They’re a weird, little bunch.

He pricks up his ears when the target of their hypothetical murder shifts from Bourne to him. One never knows; the last time they talked about murdering somebody, Foster ended up dead in the locker room under the showers, with a _pencil_ buried in his neck.

Sure, Foster was a bag of dicks, but still.

Westfahl says he’d add rat poison to Brock’s coffee, and Brock laughs softly at that, because his addiction to caffeine isn’t a secret and it really is the most obvious way to kill him. Mercer wonders if it’s actually possible to kill a person that way, and how much rat poison it would take. She adds it would probably be more reasonable to use one of Hydra’s poisons instead, or the Winter Soldier’s tranquilizers.

“Hey, rookie,” she calls out to Jack Rollins, the newest addition to STRIKE. “How’d you kill Brock?”

Brock shifts in his place to look in curious anticipation at Rollins, who has yet to say a word, despite them sitting and drinking for over an hour now. The rookie is curled in an armchair, an opened bottle in hand – why he’s drinking beer while everyone else chose hard liquor is beyond Brock – fingering a closed butterfly knife with the other. Brock recalls the first time they met. He fished him out of the crowd of candidates during the recruitment for the newly vacant place after Foster. Rollins brought that knife to a hand to hand fight, scaring his opponent shitless. Brock was impressed with what he then thought was incredible cunning. No one said the fight was supposed to be fair after all; missions hardly ever consisted of those. It was after their first op together that he noticed Rollins included that knife in more activities than just fighting. He swears he saw Rollins take it with him under the shower once (not that he was watching him under the shower. He just happened to glance and notice). It is a little odd; Brock thinks Rollins fits in with STRIKE quite nicely.

Rollins’ sharp, green eyes land on Brock.

“I’d slit his throat,” he replies lazily, but without missing a beat.

His eyes are now definitely fixed on Brock’s neck, and Brock feels weirdly vulnerable and bare; he’s just in a t-shirt and cargo pants, so he doesn’t really have a way to cover his throat from Rollins’ gaze. Not that he would. He bares his teeth in a condescending sneer.

“He wouldn’t even notice,” Rollins continues, his expression unchanging.

The knife in his hand flips open and Brock swallows involuntarily, the sneer gone from his face. He takes a sip of his drink to hide his unease.

“He’d be dead at my feet before any of you could react.”

Rollins’ gaze moves from Brock’s throat to his eyes and he grins. He presses the tip of the knife to his lower lip. Brock’s whole body tingles as he watches the tip of Rollins’ tongue poke out to gently touch the blade.

“Wow,” Bourne’s unimpressed voice cuts through the stunned silence. He’s rolling his eyes. “Nice little fantasy you dreamed up there. Have been thinking about it for a while, huh?”

Rollins’ amused stare lingers on Brock before it shifts to Bourne.

“Not at all,” he responds lightly, grinning even wider.

“No one even thought about good ol’ trusty shot to the head?” Bourne continues. “That’s what _I_ ’d do.”

Brock takes another sip, the dry taste of Gin Martini grounding him, soothing the tension. “That’s so impersonal,” he says, pretending to be hurt. “I thought you liked me.”

Bourne just shrugs.

The conversation shifts to who would they eat if they were stranded in Siberia with no supplies and no way of communication. Rollins remarks human meat is sinewy and that he’d rather eat snow. When Westfahl suspiciously asks him how he knows that, Bourne says he’s just showing off. Brock says he’d eat Mercer, because her meat surely is finest and most delicate. Mercer brings him a whole tray of Mad Dogs for that.

The Mad Dogs must be why he finds himself outside Mercer’s beach house unidentified time later, lying in the sand, with the sound of the sea in the background. He’s alone, as far as he can tell, the dark, starry sky extending above him. He closes his eyes, sighing contentedly. He’s warm, and peaceful, and certainly drunk.

His eyes snap open at the sudden weight on his chest; there are elbows digging into his biceps, somebody’s legs are pinning his thighs down. He braces himself to shove the man off – because the firm, muscular body pressing into his is definitely male – when he feels something sharp and cold against his neck and freezes.

“Told you,” somebody rasps into his ear, and a hot, alcoholic breath sweeps the side of his neck. “You wouldn’t even notice.”

“Rollins,” Brock chokes out as the blade of Rollins’ fucking knife digs into his throat; one, swift move of Rollins’ arm and Brock’s dead. “The fuck yer doin’?”

“What does it look like?” Rollins’ voice is low and… there’s something in it that Brock can’t quite identify, but it sends chills down his spine and makes his skin break in cold sweat.

“Like yer outta yer mind.”

He can feel Rollins’ body shake against his racing heart and the pressure on his throat lessens. There’s rumble in Rollins’ chest and Brock realizes he’s laughing.

“The look on your face!”

He’s looking down at Brock, his eyes crinkled in amusement, his smile a little lopsided. Brock feels sudden relief rush through him, but he tenses again at the sharp pain in his neck.

“Oops,” he hears Rollins mutter. “Sorry, commander.”

Brock feels warm liquid run down his neck. He brings his hand up to touch it. There’s a small cut on the left side, where Rollins is still holding his knife. It’s shallow, definitely not lethal. Brock’s surprised it even bleeds, considering all his blood seemed to flow downwards few seconds ago. And Rollins can definitely tell, the way he’s pressed against him. Which, fuck. Brock doesn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He’s just coming down from the adrenaline high, that’s it, and he’s drunk. His body does weird things when he’s drunk.

The expression on Rollins’ face shifts suddenly, from slightly amused to downright _feral_. His eyes darken as he looks down at Brock, his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he presses _down_ with his whole body, driving air out of Brock’s lungs.

“You like that, commander?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

Before Brock manages to gather enough breath to order Rollins to get the hell off him, there’s a hot, wet tongue on his neck, licking the bleeding cut. The sting of it goes straight to Brock’s cock, but if he moans, it’s out of surprise. And he does not press back against Rollins’ bulk. Maybe his body jerks involuntarily, because he’s drunk, but that’s it. Rollins makes a low, deep sound, similar to a growl, and he’s tonguing Brock’s cut more enthusiastically now, his free hand slipping into Brock’s hair to grip on it.

“The fuck, Rollins?” Brock pants.

He might be rubbing his hard-on against Rollins’ thigh, just a little.

“You like my knife,” Rollins whispers into his ear, his hot breath sweeping Brock’s cheek. “You like me.”

“Holy fuck, I guess I do,” Brock breathes and that’s definitely not what he wants to say, but he’s too hot for comfort, his clothes are sticking to his sweaty skin, and his mind is hazy from booze and lust.

Rollins supports himself on his elbow, letting cool air reach Brock’s neck and it makes Brock realize how hot his skin really is; he literally feels heat radiating off him.

“My knife likes you, too,” Rollins says, looking at Brock with hungry eyes. He closes the knife and presses the handle against Brock’s lips. “Show me how much you like it.”

Brock parts his lips, letting the metal handle slide in. It’s heavy on his tongue, and warm from Rollins’ hand. Brock can taste his sweat on it. It’s oddly hot, to hold it in his mouth; he starts tonguing it and raises his (swimming) head a little, taking it further inside, until he feels Rollins’ dry fingers against his lips. Rollins groans at the sight and bites his lower lip. He pulls the knife out a little, then pushes back in; it slips easily on Brock’s tongue. Brock shuts his eyes. He’s more aware of the fact that Rollins is fucking his face with the handle of the same knife he showers with than his hips rocking against the solidity of Rollins’ thigh or the strangled moans that escape his throat. He tries to grab at something, but there’s only sand around him, flowing through his fingers and sticking to the sweaty skin of his hands and forearms.

Rollins’ thigh pulls away suddenly and Brock moans in protest around the knife, his hips driving upwards, trying to chase him. Rollins shushes him, whispering something in a reassuring way, _probably_ in English, but Brock is too far gone to understand. Rollins’ thigh is replaced by his hand that starts rubbing his aching cock through the thin material of his cargo pants, and Brock reaches down to press his hand harder, make it move faster. He thrusts into it, struggling to catch his breath with the warm metal still in his mouth, and Rollins’ teeth suddenly sink in his throat, making his whole body jerk from the sudden jolt of pain, and, and—

When he opens his eyes, he’s alone, his body cooling down and his heart rattling in his chest, his pants damp and sticky and cold on his sensitive cock. He blinks few times, trying to get his mind to work again. Did he just have a very weird, very inappropriate wet dream involving his youngest subordinate?

He reaches up to his neck, fingers the small cut, the sting of it breaking through the haze in his mind. He stares blankly at the starry sky, the sound of the sea barely reaching him through the ringing in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> I googled “manly drinks” for that, I kid you not. Whoever put Mojito as a number one manly drink should reevaluate their manliness.
> 
> From what I gathered from my quick research, human meat is not actually sinewy. Also, it would be a better idea to eat your friend rather than snow if you ever find yourself stranded in Siberia.


End file.
